


Blood and Roses

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drugged Sex, F/M, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Non-Consensual Bondage, Original Character Death(s), Red Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha has lived through this before. (See Notes for prompts this is based on.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on two prompts: _HYDRA goons/Natasha - gangbang on the Black Widow_
> 
>  
> 
> _What it says on the tin. Maybe she's been captured, and the HYDRA goons (can be of either sex) decide it's time for some payback for their plans being foiled and their activities being dragged out into the light of the Internet. Or she's using her body to get information from them, or to distract them from something else that's going on._
> 
>  
> 
> _Feel free to include other kinks, etc., as long as there's no mutilation, scat or urine involved._
> 
>  
> 
>  _After all, why should the boys get to have all the fun? (Hard femsub is one of my kinks and I'd love to see some here, this being a landfill and all)._ and _Natasha/Winter Soldier - rape, gangbang, optional h/c_
> 
>  
> 
> _In the comics, back when Natasha and the Winter Soldier were back with the Russians, he trained her and the two of them got into a secret relationship. When it was discovered, they forbid it and started putting Bucky in cyro in between missions. So going off of that:_
> 
>  
> 
> _The Winter Soldier and Natasha are found out - and from there they're both dragged into a room with a bunch of [Russian Hydra, KGB, Red Room personnel] who chain the Soldier up and force him to watch them all rape Natasha without being able to do anything about it. Then he's ordered to rape her again after they're all done, and no matter how much he doesn't want to, he is physically incapable of defying orders._

Natasha Romanov wakes up naked and aching, sprawled out on a concrete floor. Her hands are cuffed beneath her back, her thighs spread wide and smeared wet, an undeniable soreness confirming that she was raped while unconscious. She pulls her legs shut, trying to sit upright, and dizzily overbalances into a lurch forward, her head swimming -- drugs, of course. She lies back more carefully, supporting herself on shaking arms as she eases onto her side; her legs are so leaden she glances to check if they've been bound to weights, and finding none she hauls her knees up, guarding body heat, then looks around her surroundings.

A door to the left, a wall to the right, bolted metal shelves above her head, an LED in the ceiling casting dim yellow light. The HYDRA operatives she stumbled upon not only brought her back alive to their base but stashed her in a simple closet, barely even restrained. It's a little insulting, and very convenient. She pokes her left forefinger against her right wrist and finds two lockpicks still glued in place, no less. 

However, her fingernail skids and bounces across it, her fingers cramping out of her control, and then the nausea hits, curling her up around her roiling belly. _All right, perhaps not yet_ , she tells herself calmly over the surge of alarm. Within her a young girl cries out in anticipatory terror, and she tells herself again, remembering a deep gentle voice lost to her long ago, _All right, Natasha. You have lived through this before._

Still, her heart pounds in her heaving chest, her teeth begin to chatter as the memory batters at the walls of her mind. So Natasha breathes through her nose, in and out and in again, until her lungs at least are within her control; on a deeper breath she closes her eyes, opens the door of her mind, and invites the memory in.

* ** * ** * 

Natalia drifted to some kind of hazy awareness, naked and chilled, her thighs flattened wide and the top of her head touching a hard floor, her back arched over her bound hands. Gracelessly she rolled to the side, flopping one sticky-slick thigh atop the other, but that was the extent of what she could force herself to. She should take stock of her injuries and discern her location, she knew, but her entire body felt like one leaden abrasion, far too battered and heavy to think of moving, and just then she realized that a man had just called her name and she couldn't make herself answer.

He called her again, drawing nearer, and she knew that voice, she knew him. "James?" she cried out softly, trying to raise her heavy head, to look up -- a band of cloth was flattened over her eyes, taped as well as bound, blocking her sight. On a burst of desperate strength she rolled her head sideways, trying to rub it off against the floor until he shushed her.

"Keep still, Natalia," he said as he reached her, the sounds of his steps arriving a moment before his fingertips gently brushed her knee. "Keep still, Sweeting." He had never called her such an endearment before, the pet name soothing over the bruises inside her mind from her horrible waking, from the realization of what must have been done to her while she was unconscious. He cut the rope from her wrists and gathered her up against his warm shirt-covered chest, lifting her as he stood. "Let me carry you back."

"My eyes," she began, but he hushed her again, and she dropped her hand and her head on his shoulder.

"They may be damaged," he told her as he jogged along, passing through a doorway, twists and turns. "Leave the bandage for now." Natalia obeyed, resting her hand over James's heart, but disquiet swelled through her relief, a sense of something strange. He carried her through another doorway, into a wide space, and she almost thought they might be outside, but -- no, echoes returned. And his left arm did not feel right, metal-solid beneath her back but -- _where were the joints?_

"You! Who are you?" Natalia jerked upright, and the man carrying her laughed in James's voice as he ran faster, squeezing her tight as she struggled to fight him. As she shoved away he suddenly dropped her hard upon a hard smooth floor. She wasn't rescued, she lashed out but met only air and mocking laughter in more and more voices, she gripped the blindfold and ripped it away, tape tugging from her face. The wash of light almost blinded her but the scents of wood polish and sweat told her where she was, even as chains clanked to her left. She was in a familiar sparring room, a little table beside her. She had never been taken from the grounds at all. The teachers and guards of the Red Room stood around, chuckling and hooting as she sat naked and aching on the floor. 

She lunged, but she was drugged and they had the advantage; a tide of hands pinned her, strong arms wrestled her down, hot-breathed laughter swept over her and mocking kisses rained upon her face and body as the table was flipped and shoved beneath her, her wrists and ankles taped to its legs, the whole too long for her to flip as she could a chair. She cursed and bit and they slapped and pinched and squeezed her all over, holding the table to the floor, still laughing.

"The dreamer wakes!" That was Madame's voice as she stepped forwards, an icy knife through the din, and Natalia stilled, gasping and wide eyed, staring at her chief teacher. "I had had such hopes for you, Romanova, and here I see you swooning in a man's arms. And not even realizing his disguise!" More booming laughter, a big hand gripping her hair and shaking her head. "But see our generosity, we have had him wait for you all this time." 

Madame stepped aside, revealing the jangling chains drawn tightly to the wall; hanging in them, bare and bloody and muzzled, was James. Natalia cried out his name, staring into his wide blue eyes, foundering in horror. They had been discovered. She had brought this punishment down upon them.

Madame stepped forwards and bent, all the restraining hands tensing as she reached in to push a needle into Natalia's neck; a burning injection and the room began spinning as Madame stood, lifting one booted foot to nudge her toe against Natalia's belly. "Since you've decided to give it all away, we thought we would offer the staff and guards a share, and let the man who suborned you see what comes of such foolishness." Natalia tried to shout defiance but no sound came out, her tongue lay leaden in her mouth. "Proceed, gentlemen," Madame said with a dismissive wave, and the men fell upon Natalia like wolves on a trussed calf.

She couldn't scream, she couldn't move, she could only lie there and take it as they used her fore and aft for their pleasure, could only shudder and ache and strain as they thrust within her, heavy upon her belly, their thighs thumping against hers, her bitten breasts shuddering back and forth, coarse shouts and cheers echoing in her ears. She could only choke as they wrenched her head back and shoved their cocks down her throat, rutting against her face, their balls heavy and musky upon her nose as they pulsed in her mouth, spurting thick and bitter on her tongue, and no sooner did one withdraw than the next plunged in, choking away all her air. She gurgled and coughed, had to swallow and tried to thrash, but hard hands gripped her waist and thick thighs pinned her head down, hard thrusts jouncing her head against the floor.

Her diaphragm spasmed, seemingly beating against the cock battering within her, she felt so spitted and invaded as the men over her groaned and cheered, pinched and prodded her and switched places, the next slamming deep inside her. Natalia couldn't think, couldn't fight, could only soak in agony as she was pounded against the unyielding table, her scoured skin flaring beneath each squelching blow. A haze rose across her mind, drugs and shock she knew, but it was distant knowledge, irrelevant to the crackling agony of being forced again and again, of having no idea how many men shoved themselves between her legs, one after the other, beating their individual rhythms into her battered body. Each one smelled different, slid differently into her slicked and trammeled passages, chafed a different texture of bruises into her abraded flesh, and they were all the same, gleefully hurting her and mocking her for having dared to love. All training out of reach, Natalia couldn't keep track, tell wide from narrow, smooth from veined, could but lie there being fucked over and over, bitten and choked and pounded and squeezed and helplessly feeling it all.

At last she was allowed a moment's breath, she dragged in a huge whoop of air as hot tears ran down her cheeks and thick fluids down her bottom; she shuddered against the slicked-wet table beneath her back, feeling utterly debased and filthy, cracked open and befouled, her aching breasts trembling as she sobbed. The air eddied over her wet skin, over every pulsing bruise, as she shook in her bonds, defeated as she had never been. The men crowded around snickered and commented, their voices far distant beyond the aching immediacy of such hurt.

She didn't even hear his footsteps until the last, but he was suddenly there beside her, pulling the tape off her wrists. "Natalia," James murmured, her actual James, his red-blotched face before her streaming eyes. "Alianovna. Forgive me."

 _Mine, mine, the fault is mine,_ she would have said if she could have, she would have climbed to her feet and pressed her back to his, ready to fight everyone in the room to the death, if she could. She sobbed, and he pushed her hair back from her brow and kissed her tenderly between her eyes, holding her to his bare chest as he pulled the tape from her ankles.

She could almost have relaxed, her body limp and disobedient, but once again, something wasn't right. The crowd jeered him to hurry it up, and he snarled over her head, "I would kill you all with my bare hands if I could."

"But you can't," said Madame. "So get on with it."

James bent his face to hers again as he gathered her off the table and sat on the floor. "Natalia," he whispered into her hair. "I am sorry. So sorry." As he laid down with her on his chest, limp as a rag doll, as he pushed her hips down and she felt him hard against her, and thought, _no, NO!_ even as she understood the cruel mercy.

As James sank into her once more, agony searing through her, he sobbed into her tumbled hair; as she shook around him, daggers of red light flying across her sight, she parted her lips and let loose the tiniest cry, the faintest ghost of a scream. He stroked the length of her back with his metal hand, as he had when they had been made to demonstrate for the Red Room; she lay on his chest, her ear over his beating heart, as he rolled his hips the way he had the first time they chose each other, as gently as he could. Still, he had to push her down to meet his thrusts, his flesh hand tight enough to brand her skin, her joints creaking, new pains upon old as she wept almost silently.

Natalia's time sense had shattered, she never knew how long James's last turn took, just the ragged sobs tearing out of him and the burning strain of each stroke, how he trembled to be gentle as long as he could, and when he could no longer he went as fast as he could, murmuring apologies into her hair as her whole body shook with his. And at the last, he kissed her all over her forehead, whispering into her hair, "Natasha, Natasha."

When he was done he stayed with her for a few seconds, panting as he deflated, and she felt his body moving hers with each breath, little whimpers falling from her mouth. The watchers broke into sardonic applause, calling out congratulations to the lovebirds and appreciation for their performance; when they had died down Madame called out three harsh syllables and James went rigid all over. "Come here," Madame added, and James growled, deep in his chest, sitting up with Natalia in his arms.

But then he laid her down on the floor, very gently, and stood up, and she blinked her heavy eyes open to see him looking at her, his eyes bottomlessly deep, as he walked away. "Wipe him," Madame said, as two snickering men seized James's arms, "ice him and send him back with a full report. His psyche recovers disgracefully fast, the squids have much work to do."

"As for this little baggage," and Natalia was grasped by her shoulders, hauled up and dragged before Madame, her feet trailing limply on the floor, her head hanging until Madame gripped her chin in sharp-nailed fingers and raised it. Natalia tried her best to glare, though she felt soaked in defeat, and Madame clucked her tongue and looked thoroughly unimpressed. "Take her to reconditioning for at least the next month."

"Clean her up first, Madame?" asked the burly man on Natalia's right.

Madame shook her head. "No. I want her skin to remember." She waved them off and they picked Natalia up beneath her shoulders and knees like a corpse, carrying her through the gaggle, some of which reached out for a last pinch or squeeze.

"Hope you took a good look at your beau," said the burly man, and Natalia gritted her teeth and tried to remember all the possible ways she could kill him. "Next time you see him he won't know you at all."

"Perhaps they'll have him fuck her anyway," said the skinny one holding her arms, "for old time's sake."

Natalia closed her burning eyes, her weeping at an end. Tears had done her no good today, and she told herself, as calmly as James ever spoke to her, that one day she would have blood.

**********************

Playing dead usually has good results, Natasha's found. A little too soon, two HYDRA agents return to retrieve her, one tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he apparently vetoes giving her a second dose. "It's gonna be awhile before we get resupplied," he says, "not least after the stunt this little cunt pulled." He smacks Natasha's ass resoundingly. "Besides, we gave her enough to keep a horse down for 24."

"I thought you guys were nuts to bring her back, until I saw her naked," says the second, squeezing Natasha's ass, digging in stinging fingernails. "Mmm, springy. It'll be worth it just to watch you fuck her sore."

"We already did that in the van." They both snicker, hard nails scoring lines down the back of Natasha's thigh. "Now we're gonna fuck her bloody." They turn right, no footsteps behind them, so Natasha opens her eyes to slits, just enough to see the windows of a conference room before they turn right again.

"Just leave her in one piece," says the second, stepping behind the first to pat Natasha's cheek as they pass through the doorway. "The higher-ups'll want her when you're done." Natasha lets her head swing limply, her hair screening her gaze: through it she measures the woman pinching her cheek. No fashion sense, but her clothes are well made and should fit with room to spare.

"Okay, okay," huffs the first as he tosses Natasha down on scratchy industrial carpet. A quick blink shows over a dozen chairs scattered across the field of view, holding four or five more HYDRA agents, one nursing a strapped-up arm and a grouchy face. Natasha bounces slightly and lets herself fall limp, playing up the unconscious act. She's on her back, her wrists tucked away above her ass, so she reaches for the lock pick again, but her fingers still tingle and cramp, her stomach occasionally twisting. Her knees and toes and the heels of her hands ache with sense-memory of the blows she could inflict, but she can't try it until she knows she can trust her body again.

All she can do right now is wait, and endure.

They bicker over precedence, of course, and under the guise of random twitches, Natasha shifts her thighs open a touch wider, breathes just deeply enough to make her breasts tremble. The longer they spend arguing over her the longer her system has to clear out their drugs. Unfortunately, they don't come to blows, and it seems the one with the strapped-up arm is granted precedence, as when the first kneels between her legs she feels just one hand tug her ankles apart, his whole stance askew.

"Bitch," he breathes behind a stinging backhand across her cheek, and she rolls with it. "Broke my fucking arm, you're gonna fucking pay." She remembers him, she kicked at his head but he blocked well enough that she snapped his wrist instead, just before the dart dropped her. He slaps her again across the other cheek, as if going for a matched set of bruises, and she makes a note to kick him in the head on her way out.

A hard hand on her inner thigh, a blunt hot nudge against her twinging labia, and she concentrates on keeping her pulse steady against the stretch, her breathing regular despite the burn. Her chin's fallen to her shoulder and she focuses on that warm point of self-contact, not the man plunging and grunting within and over her. _Steady,_ she thinks, remembering the tune of a lullaby about Laika. She taught herself that association long ago, back when she was young enough that being called a bitch bothered her. Back when many things bothered her. 

It takes him awhile to finish despite his colleagues' rough cheers, pain from the broken wrist likely slowing him down. He finally groans through his orgasm, puffs for breath, staggers to his feet and kicks Natasha in the side. Boots hurt, but nothing seems to have torn or snapped, so she just keeps breathing. "Hey!" the woman wearing her upcoming clothes calls, "No broken bones!"

"Fuck you," he calls and kicks Natasha again, even more weakly, before staggering off. She will definitely repay him kick for kick, she decides, as she tries her wrist again. Her fingers seem to be responding better, she even gets her fingernail beneath one pick.

The next agent stomps up, giving a useful warning to leave her lock picks alone, before he rolls her over. Framing her ass in big hands, he pulls her up so her knees are beneath her as he crows, "Look at this round ass and little teeny waist!"

"You sound like you never saw Romanov before," someone calls, as he squeezes her hips and thighs, up and down.

"Never saw her naked before," he retorts, "on her knees for HYDRA where she belongs."

"Well, flip her back over so we can see her tits!" Screened by her tumbled hair, Natasha rolls her eyes behind her closed lids.

"You roll her over when you get your turn! Who's got the lube?" is answered with a rush of commentary, "didn't you bring some?" and "hurry up already!" rising above the din. This HYDRA idiot groans in annoyance, then gets a bright idea, tilts her hips up a bit more, and pushes into her. He shouts gleefully, which she feels vibrate inside her as well as its breeze across her back. "Holy shit, why didn't anyone tell me she's still this tight? I thought it'd be like throwing a hotdog down a hallway by now!"

Another barrage of comments, "have fun" and "get on with it!" both hollered at least twice. He does, and talks the whole time, until Natasha wishes she could trust her legs enough to kick in his teeth just to shut him up. "Never thought I'd get to fuck a Level Seven," he puffs, "never thought I'd get to see a SHIELDie fall so low, God this is amazing, what a hot cunt, Hail HYDRA…" 

Natasha thinks the lullaby louder. Words and groans and exclamations keep poking through, to say nothing of the jarring impact of each thrust, her stomach roiling inside her, her breasts and shoulders and cheek dragging against the coarse carpet. This hurts, and she is more than tired of it, and only reminding herself that there's more than her own comfort at stake keeps her from trying her luck with the handcuffs still on. Finally another loud groan, another wet gush, his hands clenching hard enough on her hips that they creak; eventually he tugs out, climbs to his feet panting and declaring her "a better fuck unconscious than my old lady awake!"

"I'm telling her you said that," says the next, the one who carried her in, she recognizes his voice and his palms as he flips her over again. "Hello again, sweet cheeks," he says, shoving her knees up, bending her in half, leaning his chest against her legs as he maneuvers inside, crushing the air out of her. 

That's never good. The panic swells in the back of Natasha's head as her ribs strain against his weight. She's never liked having her air cut off. She coughs as if her autonomic body is fighting for breath, a mindless suffocated animal; at least her hands press into her back, which means they're hidden, and thus still hers. 

He thumps into her, and her cough is unfeigned, the handcuffs denting a bruise into her back to match those he's squeezing into her thighs. She reaches for the lock pick but the next thrust jostles her grip loose. It's frustrating. But Natasha has survived this before, and worse, she reminds herself, and she can do this. She times her grasps to each pull out, letting herself shift limply each time he slams in, noting the searing rise of soreness as just more information. She may need medical attention after this, beyond a long shower, a palmful of pain medication, and an STD test set. 

If so, she'll be distinctly annoyed.

"Look at that little red mouth!" someone shouts, and Natasha braces internally against having her air limited further, against the weight and foulness of a man crouched over her face and fucking her mouth. The one on her laughs, his belly pressing down hers as he drops her thigh to grope crushingly over her breasts and grip her throat. 

Just as his thumb presses into her windpipe, Natasha pries the lock pick loose. He squeezes her throat hard enough to make her lightheaded, dangerously close to her vagus, and she does not need to pass out now. But she has the lock pick nocked into the cuff mechanism, and she's undone handcuffs in far groggier states than this.

He swears, "Fuck, fuck fuck," as he comes, her head swimming dizzily, and the cuff falls loose from her wrist. Natasha sucks in a deeper breath past the constriction and tells herself, _not yet, not quite yet, wait, wait_. As he pants he drops his hand from her throat to the floor, and _now._

He yells satisfyingly as she bears down on him, his skull cracking just as delightfully beneath the handcuff she whacks into his temple, and he's still wearing a gun at his hip, lovely idiot. Natasha lets him fall across her as she opens her eyes, shooting the first two blurry heads she sees, then hitting the woman behind them in elbow and knee. A sideways twist and she shimmies free, pushing up on one leg, over a grab and a shot and onto the nearest chair as she shoots off another's ear, leaps over to Broken Wrist and kicks him three times, left temple, right jaw, straight into the forehead. He slumps backwards and she stomps on his windpipe as she jumps again, shooting at two she didn't see before, putting them down with gutshots, keeping them down with headshots.

The room is littered with bodies, silent but for the woman whimpering where she fell. Natasha stills for a moment where she stands, balanced on a chair, drinking in unfettered air. She's covered in dank sweat and sticky oozes, her thighs greasy, her body a concert of muscles wrapped in a collection of bruises, mostly hers again. Her knees wobble minutely, but they hold.

Then she steps down, because she doesn't know how long she has until more HYDRA agents arrive, and walks over to the woman, who's groping awkwardly for her gun. She must have neglected her secondary hand shooting practice.

"Hey sis," Natasha says, aiming right between the woman's wide blue eyes, "nice outfit."

**********************

When Steve opens the door of his apartment, crutch under his shield arm and phone in his free hand, his eyes widen so comically it's easy for Natasha to see herself reflected in them, a rocket launcher on her shoulder, a livid handprint on her throat, her hair tied back with a gaudy silk scarf. She's wearing a loose blouse, slacks with bloody knees, and boots a size and a half too big; she probably should have changed first, but all she wanted, all she wants, is a moment's sanctuary. And these days, she can have it.

"That Nat?" Clint asks from the phone. 

Steve nods mutely, staring at her, then remembers to say "uh, yes." Natasha steps forward and he hobbles back, clearing a space for her to enter without having to touch him, holding the phone up so she can hear.

"I'll be there in fifteen," Clint says, and Natasha's sore cheek creases with the edge of a smile. "Good job," he adds. "There's nothing left but a smoldering ruin and some ashy bon-- anyway. Nothing left."

"What did you expect?" Natasha makes herself say, for the phone's benefit, but it comes out faint, barely supported by the dregs of bravado. 

She shrugs before Clint even replies, "Nothing less. Just -- get some rest. Barton out."

Steve has managed to stop staring, and pockets his phone while glaring into his linen closet. As he hands Natasha a stack of towels a muscle jumps in his jaw. Fortunately, he's grown enough sense not to say anything.

Natasha will be grateful later. Shrugging again, she sets her rocket launcher by the bathroom door, opens it and goes inside.


End file.
